


His Demon

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17071079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: They're all entangled. Tied together, bound and knotted, the criminals and the heroes of Gotham. There's no need for heroes without a monster lurking in the corner, waiting to be defeated. And it's no fun being evil without a bit of a challenge.Therefore, each hero chose a monster, and each monster chose a hero. And they fought for the souls of their beloved ones until the end of time.





	His Demon

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote a little drabble on Tumblr that escalated into almost 3k words of smut. If you squint very hard you might be able to see the faint ghost of a plot (who am I kidding??). Alright, I have zero excuses for this. Enjoy!

 

They're all entangled. Tied together, bound and knotted, the criminals and the heroes of Gotham. There's no need for heroes without a monster lurking in the corner, waiting to be defeated. And it's no fun being evil without a bit of a challenge.

Therefore, each hero chose a monster, and each monster chose a hero. And they fought for the souls of their beloved ones until the end of time.

James Gordon made his choice a long time ago, on the docks when he decided his personal ghoul must live.

And now he's got his own unholy devil. His demon screeches, grits his teeth and offers deals over deals. He offers the entire world on a silver plate and wants so little, almost nothing. When James Gordon declines, he sneers and snarls. He's the embodiment of temptation.

The fiend is cunning and mesmerizing. He's dressed in silk, velvet, and fur, and he limps and taps his cane.

James Gordon's mother once said the devil has one hoof for a leg. She's been right.

Satan doesn't disguise himself as a big, black hound. No, he's a Penguin - seemingly chaste and innocent, but watch out! For this Penguin, the world is one big fish.

Jim is back to arguing with him again. The devil is oh so clever. The deals they are making don't devour the detective's soul. Not the whole thing at least, and not everything at once.

Instead, he devours him one eensy weensy, tiny winy bit by bit.

Until one day, there won't be anything left of the man James Gordon used to be: an honest man, a just man, a man who honored the law.

The King of Gotham smiles benevolently. It's all teeth and wisdom and full of mockery and lacking any warmth. He sneers and snarls and bites his long nails in frustration.

Jim smiles back. He's about to chip off another piece of his being.

It's just a small favor, a tiny debt the demon has come to collect. It was just a minuscule deal. Jim will have to make a very small bad thing for a very great good thing.

When will all those little bad things become one big terrible deed?

The detective digs his fingernails into his palms until he feels a slight pang of pain. He wants to strangle the enticing creature. He wants to slam it into the ground, destroy that pale face that seems to be carved from marble. Sure, there won't be any more debts once the gremlin is gone?

He leans close. Closer. Until he can feel the other man's breath hot on his face. Inhaling his heady scent, James feels dizzy, intoxicated. And now there's only Oswald on his mind, in his head, in his thoughts. Oswald. Oswald. Oswald.

The devil has a name.

Oswald's eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated. Usually, they are sharp and calculating but now they are anxious. Jim smirks. Satan himself is out of his depth. It had been in front of him the entire time. The solution to all of his problems. Jim knows now what the goblin wants. Wanted all the time.

The detective leans forward. His head is spinning faster and faster, the ground beneath him crumbles. Drowning in the sapphire ponds of the demon’s eyes, he loses his footing,

Pressing feather light kisses along this long, beautifully curved line of a neck, he reaches for the other man's hand, entangles their fingers. A circuit closes, setting his skin on fire. He's burning alive and not burning hot enough. The little ghoul whimpers helplessly.

He's scooting down, down, down. From the pulse point to the prominent collarbone, sucking experimentally at it before tasting marble skin. Gentle at first, a little more urgently only mere seconds later.

His Oswald is suddenly breathing very rapidly. Jim can hear his heart pounding - fast as the wing beats of a hummingbird. The rhythm is unsteady, deliberately unsettling as everything about him is.

He catches the deadly demon when his knees buckle. Presses him firmly against the wall, observing in ecstasy how the man who rules the entire city becomes oh so obediently under his touch.

He's drunk on the power that rushes through him, high on the force he’s holding between his hands. And they haven't even kissed yet.

Pushing Oswald's legs apart, he cages him between his heavy body and the wall, taking the next step to his own salvation. He’s already hard and needy beneath him. Rolling his hips urgently, he tries to gain some friction, a little form of relief.

And then he feels his lips - demanding and inexperienced at once. A wanton, desperate howl escapes him, or Oswald. Jim can’t tell. His tongue tastes wine and cigars and a hint of blood from the gangster’s dry lips. He’ll never get enough from the taste of iron again.

Oswald moans and writhes, gasps under Jim's touch and presses closer, claiming more. Fingers pull at his clothing, start unbuttoning buttons, sharp claws rip through fabric. Everything is breathing, everything is tasting and touching and all these lascivious mewls and gasps and moans.

Oswald, Oswald, Oswald. Jim can’t think with his lust-clouded brain.

_NO_.

The policeman pulls back. The lack of warmth and contact almost hurts physically, leaves an empty, hollow feeling behind as well as overwhelming, maddening lust.

But the love, oh the love, crunches his heart so tightly, he nearly can't breathe. James Gordon chokes on his own emotion.

He gives his demon just so little although he wants him to have his entire soul, his entire being. If Oswald just offered, if he'd just offer the right thing.

Yet, he turns to walk away.

Until he'll give his demon his next part. And the next one after that.

“What is the right thing?” Oswald blurts out, breathlessly. The blue of his eyes has been replaced by deep black pits. And Jim is falling again. He’s falling, down, down, down into this soothing, terrifying, exciting darkness. There’s nothing he ever wanted more than staying in the eclipse that is him.

Oswald, he has threatened and bribed his way to the top, tortured and slaughtered countless faceless creatures, knowing only one direction: up. The demon has risen from the ashes time and time again. No matter how deep he fell, he always seemed to come back stronger, more ruthlessly. There’s no way denying he’s a sadist, this young man with the angelic, innocent, beautiful face.

Yet, everything in Jim screams to protect it, this delicate, breakable being, shaped from bitterness and spite. The evil little goblin is nothing but a contradiction, messing with his brain and emotions.

What would be the right thing?

Oswald can neither change what he is, nor what he did. Death follows in his wake and it’s up Jim to explain why so many didn't make it home cause they chose to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Jim is left to deal with the ones Oswald deems disposable, exchangeable. He hates him for it, hates him passionately for all the pain he has caused, for all the bloodshed he's responsible for.

Closing his eyes, Jim allows the wrath to surge through him until it tingles in each fiber of his body. He’s overwhelmed by his disgust, his animosity and all the bitterness. It’s as if he was infected by the Tetch virus all over again, just worse, for he can’t blame his actions on external factors.

Overpowered by white-hot rage, he slams his fist into the wall beside the demon’s head. Knuckles connect with concrete again and again until his hands are bleeding, and he’s too exhausted to go on. He couldn’t kill him with the virus in his system, he can't kill him now.

James Gordon will never slaughter this particular dragon. Collapsing on the floor, he examines the damage done to his hands.

“Allow me to tend to your wounds, James,” the demon speaks softly, voice barely more than a tender hum. “You seem to be very upset tonight, old friend,” he murmurs, long, pale fingers caressing shattered flesh.

Oswald is so close again. The heat emanating from his body is suddenly too much and not nearly enough. “We’re not friends,” he rasps out.

“Quite right,” he answers, lips curled into a sly smile. “We’re so much _more,”_ he whispers lasciviously into the detective’s ear and that’s it - the last strand. The detective is plunging headfirst into a volcano, crushing into blazing darkness.

Pulling the demon into his lap, he kisses him feverishly, reverently. The madness has won out at last, and he’s done denying how much he wants him, always wanted him. Heart beating like it wants to escape the confinement of his rib cage, he starts ripping at the ghoul’s clothing in earnest. He’s frantic, completely out of sync with the world and it’s marvelous.

He isn’t gentle as he all but tears the tie from his long neck, tossing the expensive fabric carelessly to the ground with bloodied fingers. Suit jacket, vest, and shirt are not being treated any better. He sends buttons flying in his haste to get Oswald bare, to strip him to his core. The other man tugs helplessly at Jim’s clothing, unable to keep up with the unforgiving pace.

“Jim, Jim, Jim.” His name falls from the little devil's lips like a prayer.

He wants his hands to be anywhere at once, and his lips too. In awe, he's tracing the outlines of brittle ribs, feels them raising and lowering under his touch with each precious breath the demon takes.

Oswald is trembling as he looks up at him, already too far gone to care about the undignified sounds he's making. And Gordon wants so much more. He wants to make him scream, to have him completely at his mercy.

“Please,” he whimpers and Jim’s hand scoots lower until he finds the zipper, starts pulling.

A tug on his wrist gives him pause. Staring into Oswald’s lust blown eyes, he notes how uncertain he is. Jim hasn’t seen him like this since he'd been holding an umbrella for Fish Mooney.

It's a conundrum how a reckless killer can have such an awestruck, innocent expression. Cheeks flushed, he tries looking away. Taking his face reverently between his hands, Jim starts pressing tender kisses to each endearing freckle on the man’s face.

Oswald tries to reciprocate. Unsure hands tug ineffectively at the detective’s clothing but Jim catches his wrists, pins them down and the demon gulps helplessly. A devilish grin spreads over Jim’s face. Scooping him up in his arms, he carries him over to the settee. Lowering him down, he proceeds his task of reducing the King of Gotham to a whimpering, needy mess.

His hands are back at the zipper, caressing his rock hard cock through the extravagant fabric, eliciting another moan as he bucks up into his hand. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs in wonder and Oswald looks away, all of a sudden shy again.

“I have never,” he utters, face burning from shame and Jim nods. He knows. Oswald has committed every deadly sin but this. It’s exhilarant, this knowledge, that he’s about to push the devil over the last edge.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispers then and this plea is the most honest thing Jim has ever heard from his lips. He stops still in his tracks, one hand still on his cock, the other at the man’s elegant neck. Oswald has never been more vulnerable, not even at the dock so many years ago.

Jim shakes his head. “Never,” he vows just as honestly, sealing the promise with an almost chaste kiss.

“There's probably something you should know,” he says, one hand clasped around James’ wrist. “My leg,” he starts but the detective cuts him off. “I don’t care.”

The grasp around his hand tightens in response. “It’s not what you’ll expect,” Oswald says, staring expectantly at him as he slowly starts pulling down the fabric, inch by inch.

“ _Oh_.”

Jim inhales sharply when Oswald lies finally bare before him. His breathing is ragged, every fiber in his body tense as he awaits James’ judgment.

Oswald’s leg must have been split into a billion pieces and been put back together by someone unacquainted with anatomy. The kneecap is twisted to the right, the ankle bent too much towards the inside - if it’s an ankle at all, that is.

James Gordon isn’t entirely sure what exactly he’s looking at.

Experimentally, he touches the soft, black fur covering the shattered limb until he touches the contorted ankle that is definitely not connected to a foot - but to a shining black hoof.

Smiling self-consciously, the devil finally looks up at Jim.

“I’m sorry Jim,” he admits sheepishly. “I never even considered the possibility of you finding out.”

Jim is rendered speechless as his fingers continue caressing the soft fur unconsciously. It should have been a surprise, but it isn’t.

The detective already knew, always knew since coming to Gotham that something was off with this city full of ghouls, demons, goblins and wendigos in which the dead came back as they pleased and when they pleased.

Making up his mind, he gets up. A high-pitched, frantic cry escapes Oswald as James pulls away and then the tears start spilling freely. Covering his face with his slim arms, Oswald tries curling up in himself.

“Don’t,” Jim orders harshly. “Oswald, look at me,” he commands, voice not allowing any protest.

Only when he has the devil’s attention, he starts undressing. The task seemingly takes forever. Oswald's eyes are pinned to his body, committing each little progress to memory. He follows the movements of his fingers, completely enraptured, as Jim sheds his clothing piece by piece.

They are both naked in Oswald’s dimly lit mansion, the tension nearly palpable. It’s right there, on the tip of James’ tongue but not quite. Chest heaving, he waits for his demon to say it, to tell him what he wants and what to do.

“Touch me, please,” Oswald pleads, voice strained and full of affection and in a heartbeat he’s covering his body, his mouth. James Gordon is drowning, lost in the feeling that is Oswald Cobblepot squirming beneath his heavier body.

Lips leaving a wet trail on his chest, he quickly nips at an enticing nipple before continuing his path down. Just before finally reaching his destination, a prominent hip bone catches his interest. Pressing open-mouthed kisses to the other man's abdomen, he shifts, so he can catch those narrow hips between his palms, teeth nibbling gently at the irritating bone.

Unintelligible, wanton sounds spill from Oswald’s lips, and he cries out when the detective’s lips finally encircle the tip of his cock. He arches into his mouth, nearly gagging him in his impatience and James presses him down with a stern glare, swallowing him impossibly deeper in the process. Oswald’s jaw slackens as he lets himself fall back, giving himself over to the sensation that is Jim’s hot, wet mouth wrapped around his leaking length. He starts trembling as the detective starts bobbing his head up and down in a steady rhythm. Just when Jim feels the salt at the tip of his tongue, he releases Oswald. The other man almost sobs in protest.

A second later, he yelps in surprise as he feels that same tongue between the cheeks of his ass, swirling around that tight little hole. Looking up, Jim finds his demon set ablaze from equal parts shame and lust. Speeding up his ministrations, he adds one finger, works him open bit by bit.

Oswald is trashing restlessly, one arm thrown over his face, seemingly unable to continue looking at Gordon a moment longer. Only when he’s trembling almost violently, James removes his finger and finally, finally pushes in.

He's trembling too, barely holding on and half insane from lust. Being finally inside Oswald is nothing how Jim would have it expected it to be.

Everything is too tight, too hot. The silky fur feels smooth on his calves, the marble skin sweaty under his own. He starts moving, slowly at first. Studying Oswald’s reactions, he’s being cautious not to cause him any pain or discomfort. The maddeningly beautiful devil’s mouth hangs open as he moans in sync with each trust.

Pleased with his reaction, James picks up his pace, starts fucking him earnestly. One hand wrapped around his cock, his other hand’s fingers entwined with Oswald’s, he shoves into him until his vision blurs and hot, viscous liquid starts spilling over his hand. His mind is wiped blank in the aftermath, his heart rate only slowly coming back to normal.

Later, Oswald’s head is resting comfortably on his chest. One black hoof delicately scratching his calve, the other man peacefully drifts off to sleep. He’s defenseless like that and Jim sees his chance to finally ask him.

“What happened to your leg?” The detective’s voice is obnoxiously loud in the silent room.

“Huh?” Oswald mumbles eloquently. Clearing his throat, he shifts, so he can look Jim in the eye. “I fell,” he shares, placing his hand on Jim’s chest. Lips splitting into a crooked smile, he makes a whooshing sound.

“You fell?” Jim echoes, incredulously. Wrapping his arms around the fiend, Jim starts stroking his back lovingly, coming across two long cusps in the process. Oswald’s breath hitches as his fingers trace scarred skin. “What are these?” he murmurs.

“James Gordon, why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?” Pressing a soft kiss to the top of his nose, he snuggles closer. But that’s not it. Of course, Jim knows the answer, yet he needs a vocal confirmation, needs it to be spoken out.

“That’s where my wings used to be,” he admits at last. “You should have seen them,” he sighs. “More than 400 inches long. Gorgeous white feathers. I could create a thunderstorm with these. Now I’m waddling like a penguin and can’t even fly.” A derisive snort reverberates against his skin.

James laughs softly. “You still can, though. Create a thunderstorm, I mean.” Silence hanging heavily between them, he asks, “I am dead? Aren’t I?”

Oswald hums in response. “Does this feel like being dead?”

No, it doesn’t. In fact, James Gordon has never felt more alive, more like himself but when finally admitting ultimately being drawn to the darkness within him. Yet, he always tried so hard, did everything in his power to be a good man. It doesn’t make sense that for all his efforts, he should have ended up in hell. For Gotham is hell, isn’t it?

“Oswald, why am I here?”

“You died, obviously,” he retorts, rolling his eyes affectionately.

“But...you once called me the last good man in Gotham,” he protests weakly.

“And you are. Except for all the occasions you’re not. Believe me, further above, exceptional standards are being required.” He scoffs scornfully.

James lets the meaning of his words sink in. Swallowing heavily, he pulls Oswald against his chest again. “And where do we go from here?”

“Wherever we want to James, we have all eternity.”

Yawing, the devil falls asleep on James’ chest.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I practically live for comments.


End file.
